His Wicked Seduction (30 page)

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my editor, Noah Chinn for being a wicked mad plot genius. You are the best thing to ever happen to me and my manuscripts. I would also like to thank my Regency Romance Critique group; you ladies have been through countless drafts on my various stories and have supported me the way the best of friends always do. Lastly, I’d like to thank the readers who were so excited to read the first book in the League of Rogues Series and who have patiently waited for Lucien’s story. I hope you all enjoy the book! Your support means everything to me and the League!

About the Author

Lauren Smith is an attorney by day, author by night, who pens adventurous and edgy romance stories by the light of her smart phone flashlight app. She’s a native Oklahoman who lives with her three pets—a feisty chinchilla, sophisticated cat and dapper little schnauzer. She’s won multiple awards in several romance subgenres including being an Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Award Quarter-Finalist and a Semi-Finalist for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award.

Check her out at
www.laurensmithbooks.com
. You can follow her on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/LaurenDianaSmith
and on Twitter at
@LSmithAuthor
. Her blog is
theleagueofrogues.blogspot.com
.

Look for these titles by Lauren Smith

Now Available:

The League of Rogues

Wicked Designs

The League of Rogues takes what they want—but have they taken on too much?

Wicked Designs

© 2014 Lauren Smith

For too long Miss Emily Parr has been subject to the whims of her indebted uncle and the lecherous advances of his repulsive business partner, Mr. Blankenship. Her plan to be done with dominating men forever is simple—find herself a kind husband who will leave her to her books and her inheritance.

It seems an easy enough plan, until she is unexpectedly abducted by an incorrigible Duke who hides a wounded spirit his behind flashing green eyes.

Godric St. Laurent, Duke of Essex, spends countless nights at the club with his four best friends, and relishes his rakish reputation society has branded him with. He has no plans to marry anytime soon—if ever.

But when he kidnaps an embezzler’s niece on a mission of revenge, the difficult debutante’s blend of sweetness, sharp tongue and razor wit make him desperate for the one thing he swears he never wanted: a love that might heal him, or ruin him forever.

Yet as they find themselves surrendering to passion, danger lurks in Godric’s shadowed past, waiting for him to drop his guard—and rob him of the woman he can’t live without.

Warning: This novel includes a lady who refuses to stay kidnapped, a devilish Duke with a dark past, and an assortment charming rogues who have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wicked Designs:

London, September 1820

Something wasn’t right. Emily Parr allowed the elderly coachman to help her into the town coach, and the queer look he gave her made her skin crawl. Peering into the dark interior of the vehicle, she was surprised to find it empty. Uncle Albert was supposed to accompany her to social engagements and if not him, certainly a chaperone. Why then was the coach empty?

She settled into the back seat, her hands clutching her reticule tight enough that the beadwork dug into her palms through her gloves. Perhaps her uncle was meeting with his business partner, Mr. Blankenship. She’d seen Blankenship arrive just before she’d gone upstairs to prepare for the ball. A shudder rippled through her. The man was a lecherous creature with beetle-black eyes and hands that tended to wander too freely whenever he was near her. Emily was not worldly, having only just turned eighteen a few months earlier, but this last year with her uncle had enlightened her to a new side of life and none of it had been good.

Her first London Little Season should have been a wonderful experience. Instead it had begun with the death of her parents at sea and ended with her new life in the dusty tomb of her uncle’s townhouse. With an insubstantial library, no pianoforte and no friends, Emily had started to slide into a melancholy haze. It was crucial she make a good match and fast. She had to escape Uncle Albert’s world, and the only way she could do that was to legally obtain her father’s fortune.

A distant cousin of her mother’s held the money in trust. It was a frustrating thing to have a man she’d never met hold the purse strings on her life. Uncle Albert despised the situation as well. As her guardian he was forced to give an accounting to her mother’s cousin, which thankfully kept him from delving too deeply into her accounts for his own needs. The small fortune was the best bargaining chip she had to entice potential suitors. Though the money would go to her husband, she hoped to find a man who would respect her enough not to squander what was rightfully hers. But arriving at the ball without a chaperone would damage her chances in husband hunting, it simply wasn’t done to show up alone. It spoke lowly of her uncle as well as their financial situation.

As relieved as she was to not have her uncle or Mr. Blankenship escorting her, her stomach still clenched. She recalled the cold way the elderly driver smiled at her just before she’d climbed inside. The slickness of that grin made her feel a little uneasy, like he knew something she didn’t and it amused him. It was silly—the old man wasn’t a threat. But she couldn’t shake the wariness that rippled through her. She would have been thankful for Uncle Albert’s presence, even if it meant another lecture on how costly she was to provide for and how kind he’d been in taking her in after her parents’ ship was lost.

The driver was engaged to bring her to Chessley House for the ball, and nothing would go wrong. If she kept saying it over and over, she might believe it. Emily focused her thoughts on what tonight would bring, hoping to ease her worry. She would join her new friend, Anne Chessley, as well as Mrs. Judith Pratchet, an old friend of Anne’s mother, who’d kindly agreed to sponsor Emily for the Little Season. There was every possibility she would meet a man and catch his interest enough that he would approach her uncle for permission to court her.

Emily almost smiled. Perhaps tonight she would dance with the Earl of Pembroke.

Last night, the handsome earl had smiled at her during their introduction and asked her to dance. Emily had nearly wept with disappointment when she informed him that Mrs. Pratchet had already filled her dance card.

The earl had replied, “Another time, then?” and Emily nodded eagerly, hoping he would remember her.

Perhaps tonight I shall have a spot of luck.
She desperately hoped so. Emily wasn’t so foolish as to believe she had any real chance of marrying a man like the Earl of Pembroke, but it was nice to be noticed by a man of his standing. Sometimes that attention was noticed by others.

The coach halted sharply a moment later, and she nearly toppled out of her seat, her thoughts interrupted, her daydreams fleeing.

“Ho there, my good man!” a man shouted from nearby.

Emily moved toward the door, but the vehicle rocked as someone climbed onto the driver’s seat, and she fell back in her seat again.

“Twenty pounds is yours if you follow those two riders ahead and do as we ask,” the newly-arrived man said.

Having regained control of her balance, she flung the coach curtains back. Two riders occupied the darkened street, their backs to her. What was going on? A sense of ill-ease settled deep in her stomach. The coach jerked and moved again. As she had feared, the driver didn’t stop at Chessley House. He followed the riders ahead.

What was this? A kidnapping? A robbery? Should she stick her head out of the window and ask them to stop? If robbing her was their intent, asking them what they were doing might be a bad idea… Why would they take her when there were so many other heiresses, ones more lovely than her, having their first come out this year? Surely this wasn’t an abduction. Her mind reeled as she struggled to cope with the situation. What would her father have done in this situation? Load a pistol and fight them off. Having no pistol, she’d have to think of something clever. Could these men be reasoned with?
Unlikely.

Emily worried her bottom lip as she debated her options. She could scream for help, but such a reaction could worsen matters. She could open the door and throw herself out onto the street, but the clatter of hooves behind the coach erased that idea. She’d be lucky to survive the fall if she tried, and the horses behind were too close. She’d likely be killed. Emily fell back against the seat with a shaky sigh, her heart racing. She’d have to wait until the driver stopped.

For what seemed like an hour she kept nervously glancing out the windows to assess what direction the coach was going. By now London was far behind her. Only open country stretched on both sides of the road. A rumble of hooves heralded an approaching rider, and a man astride a sleek black gelding galloped past the window. He was too close and the horse too tall for her to get a good view of him. The moonlight rippled off the horse’s shiny coat as it rode past.

She knew by the close proximity of the rider and the determined way he rode in the saddle that he was involved with this business. Who in their right mind, except perhaps that foul old man, Blankenship, would kidnap her? He’d be the sort to engage in such a nefarious activity.

The other evening he’d come to dinner at her uncle’s house and when her uncle had turned away for only a second, Blankenship had twined one of this thick, stubby fingers around a lock of her hair, tugging it hard until she’d nearly cried out. He’d whispered horrible things in her ear, nasty things that made her sick as he told her he planned to marry her as soon as her uncle had approved. Emily had stared back at him, stating she’d never marry him. He’d only laughed and said, “We’ll see, my sweet. We shall see.”

Well, she wouldn’t back down. She wasn’t some pawn to be captured and held at someone’s mercy. They’d have to fight to take her.

Emily looked out the window on the other side to count the riders. Two led the party at the front, mere yards ahead. Another two flanked the coach on either side. One of them rode with a second horse roped to his saddle, likely for the man who rode now with the driver. Not the best of odds. Perhaps she could outsmart them.

The coach slowed, then gently creaked to a stop. Emily took stock of her situation. She fought for composure, each breath slower than the one before. If she panicked, she might not survive. She had to hide. But she could not physically escape
five
men.

Her eyes fell to the seat across from her.

Maybe—

Grand Passion…or epic disaster?

In for a Penny

© 2014 Rose Lerner

Lord Nevinstoke revels in acting the young wastrel, until his father is killed in a drunken duel. Never one to do anything halfway, Nev throws off his wild ways to shoulder a mountain of responsibility—and debt—vowing to marry a rich girl and act the respectable lord of the manor.

Manufacturing heiress Penelope Brown seems the perfect choice for a wife. She’s pretty, proper, and looking for a husband.

Determined to rise above her common birth, Penelope prides herself on her impeccable behavior and good sense. Grand Passion? Vulgar and melodramatic. Yes, agreeing to marry Nev was a rare moment of impulse, yet she’s sure they can build a good marriage based on companionship and mutual esteem.

But when they arrive at the manor, they’re overwhelmed with half-starved tenants, a menacing neighbor, and the family propensity for scandal. As the situation deteriorates, the newlyweds have nowhere to turn but to each other. To Penelope’s surprise, she begins to fervently hope that her first taste of Grand Passion in her husband’s arms won’t be her last.

Originally published Dorchester 2010.

Warning: Contains kisses in the breakfast room, account books in the bedroom…and murder in the garden. Featuring a heroine who’s used to settling, a hero who’s used to getting what he wants without trying, and a love for which they’ll both have to fight tooth and nail.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
In for a Penny:

His image rose again before her eyes. There was, to be sure, nothing out of the common way about him.
A perfectly ordinary-looking young man
, Penelope insisted to herself. He was of middling height, his shoulders neither slim nor broad. His hands were not aristocratically slender—there was nothing to set them apart from the hands of any other gentleman of her acquaintance.

His hair was a little too long, and she thought its tousled appearance more the result of inattention than any attempt at fashion. It was neither dark nor fair, but merely brown, utterly nondescript but for a hint of cinnamon. His face, too, would have been unmemorable if it were not for a slight crookedness in his nose, suggesting it had been broken. His eyes were an ordinary blue, of an ordinary shape and size.

So why could she picture him so clearly, and why did the memory of his smile still make her feel—hot, and strange inside?

But it was his voice that stayed with her the strongest. The timbre of it was imprinted on her ear, and there was nothing ordinary about it. It was rich and mellow, and there was something graceful in the careless rhythm of his speech.

So strongly had she conjured up Lord Nevinstoke’s image that when the door opened, Evans spoke, and that same gentleman entered the room, it was a moment before she was quite convinced he was real.

He was in every particular as she remembered him, save that he was dressed from head to toe in black, and his blue eyes were anxious and grave. She realized that Evans had not announced him as Lord Nevinstoke, but as Lord Bedlow.

She stood without thinking, and her book fell to the floor. In an instant he had stepped forward, bent down and returned it to her. She was conscious that her fingers closed too tightly on the book; he was very close, an odd expression in his eyes. His nearness affected her, alas, just as she remembered.

“Has something happened to your father, my lord?”

He looked away and stepped back. “You are very perceptive. My father was killed Wednesday before last.”

“You mean—the day after I saw you at Vauxhall?”

He smiled. “You remembered me.”

She had been so shocked by his news that at first she had forgotten to listen to his voice. Now she experienced the full effect of the pure vowels and husky overtones; her pulse sped up. “I am so sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” he said, then stood silent. “Dash it, this is awkward.”

“I own I am a little surprised to see you.”

“I suppose I had better out with it. My father had run into debt before he died. A great deal of debt.”

Penelope’s heart plummeted into her boots. She struggled for composure. “I see.”

“The long and short of it is, I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

Though she had been half expecting it, the world seemed to stand still a moment. Then it started again, with a stutter. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me correctly, I assure you.” He ran a hand through his hair, confirming her impression that its disorder was unfeigned, then took a few steps back. “Do you—do you think we might be seated?”

She chastised herself for a poor hostess. “Of course.” Resuming her seat, she gestured to him to take the chair placed conveniently a few feet off.

Misreading her intention, he seated himself beside her on the window seat and leaned forward, his elbows on his spread knees and his hands clasped.

“I’ve no intention of offering you Spanish coin. I need your money, very much—oh, how much! I don’t know how I’m to manage without it.” His mouth twisted. “I never thought about money till I hadn’t got it, you know. And now there’s candles and black gloves and ink and my sister’s dowry…”

He had begun to tick these off on his fingers as he went; it had the air of a familiar pattern of thought. But he caught himself and shook his hands. “Oh, and a thousand other things I never gave a moment’s thought to. How do people contrive who haven’t money?”

Penelope had never had to contrive without money; she had still been a babe when her father began to make his fortune. But she knew how it was done. “With tallow and small dowries, I’m afraid.”

He flushed. “I daresay I look a regular wastrel to you.”

He did, and Penelope hated insincerity. Nevertheless, the words flew to her lips without her thinking them. “Oh no!”

He gave her a rueful smile. She tried to ignore its effect on her. “You’re a sweet girl. And that was what I meant to say. I can’t deny I need your money, but I still wouldn’t offer for you if I didn’t feel we could rub along tolerably well together.”

His words warmed her more than they should, but that didn’t mean she had lost all sense. “We’ve spoken together for all of five minutes in our lives, my lord. How can you possibly know we could rub along well together?”

“I can tell.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he slid closer to her on the window seat, tilted up her face to his, and kissed her.

Penelope had been kissed before, once or twice. (Not by Edward, of course. He had always been all that was respectful, never giving her more than a chaste kiss on the brow or the cheek.) She had found it awkward, wet, and extremely unwelcome. But Lord Bedlow’s mouth was warm and coaxing against hers. It was not really one kiss, but several in quick succession, and she found herself instinctively responding. It was clear that Lord Bedlow knew what he was about. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and a feeling that was unfamiliar and hot and uncomfortable—at least, she
thought
it was uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure—began to stir in the depths of her body. She ached in places it wasn’t ladylike to think about. For all she still hadn’t decided if the new feeling was uncomfortable or not, she was sure she wanted more.

When he raised his head and let go of her chin, she half expected him to smirk or look triumphant. But he only looked pleased and flushed; his blue eyes, when he opened them, sparkled a little. “And you like Arne’s arias.”

Penelope liked Arne a great deal. She suspected she had liked the kiss a great deal too, but it was civil of him not to point that out. “Still, that is hardly a basis to be considering matrimony,” she said as severely as she could when her pulse was racing and she was blushing all over.

The pleased light died out of his eyes. Turning, he stared out the bow window. “I know it. But I’ve tried everything else.”

She pitied him sincerely. “Have you no other way of making money? Surely you needn’t rush into a marriage that—that cannot be what you wish.” She looked away, conscious of her folly in fishing for a compliment when he would have had to be an idiot to contradict her. “I know it isn’t done, for a gentleman of your class to engage in business, but I remember you told me that you thought it was clever, making money.”

“Well, I am not particularly clever.” His crooked profile was bleak.

She wanted—she hardly knew what, but to touch him, to comfort him.

“And I need money right away, a great deal of it. I’ve sold off my mother’s favorite estate and my father’s guns. I’ve sold half the silver and most of the horses and all the jewels my mother hasn’t hidden under her mattress. I’m putting the town house up for sale tomorrow—but it won’t cover a tenth of the debts. I’ve sold everything I can think of, and it isn’t enough. The only thing I have left is myself.” His self-mocking smile was out of place on his boyish face. “I know it’s not a very good bargain.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was very sorry, but it would be the height of imprudence even to consider, et cetera, et cetera—and heard herself say, “All right then.”

“You mean you’ll marry me?” He turned back to her, his face lighting up.

Again her tongue moved without consultation with her brain. “Well—yes.” Even in the midst of her consternation, his smile was contagious; she found herself smiling foolishly back.

“Oh, this is wonderful. Thank you!” With an effort he looked more grave. “I hope I am sensible of—you won’t regret it.”

She regretted it already. Had she really consented? Had she lost her mind? Faintly she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She ought to back out, to tell him she’d made a mistake, that she hadn’t considered—but she knew she wouldn’t. Some part of her didn’t want to.

She squared her shoulders. “I shall do my best to be a good wife to you, even if I’m not the wife of your choosing. I see no reason why two people of good sense and amiable dispositions should not find a tolerable measure of conjugal felicity, even if they are not, perhaps, united by those bonds of affection and familiarity which one might wish.”

He looked a little bewildered by this speech, but he said, “Precisely my sentiments.”